failure of BBC 1

18-05-26 I'll probaby have to explain the rage-bait title. I've not been looking forward to this blog because it records a failure and contaminates a favourite experience and species due to an erroneous weather forecast, a long dreary cycle and a poor result. I'll keep it brief. Actually I should wallow in it as my lovely readership often seem to enjoy my spectacular failures more than yet another success, another splendid day out, when everytthing goes well and the hero gets the girl butterfly.

The observant among us will have noticed the BBC - broad-bodied chaser - at the top of the page and remember that one of the few venues I find them is Colstoun, directly South of Haddington. However I am also employing the TLA (three letter acronym, itself a three letter acronym) of the title to describe the purveyors of the unreliable weather forecast that was at the heart of today's failure.

I can't remember what the BBC forecast (and backed up by the Met Office forecast) promised, but it would have been mainly sunshine. There's no way I would commit to a 40mile cycle to see a dragonfly on a rainy day. (Like butterflies they disappear on rainy days.) And yet somehow that is what happened. It makes me rage that people are being paid to supply a forecast and that it is regularly so wide of the mark. I'm not saying it is easy to predict the future accurately, but to get it so badly wrong is very discouraging and annoying. I think their wages should be based on accuracy and if there is doubt then say that. I live by the forecasts and plan my life around them. When a predicted sunny day doesn't materialise it impacts heavily. Anyway, today I was totally fucked over badly.

the logpile at the top of the hill

The BBCs are possibly my favourite Scottish dragonfly. They turned up in the Lothians relatively recently and the last few years I've been going to Colstoun to see them. They are one of the first (along with 4-spot chasers) to emerge. They are slowly expanding territories but so far that is the only reliable place I have found to see them. It is exactly 20 miles away and not really possible by public transport unless you get a couple of different buses. And besides, I need the exercise. As I get older and fatter the inclination to go cycle 40miles is dropping off and I really have to fight it.

I had done a small tester bike ride 2 days before to acclimatise my arse to the discomforts of the saddle and it had gone okay. Broken in would be an appropriate term. I largely tried to blank out the cycle along to Musselburgh, up the long drag to Tranent and on past bleak Macmerry until eventually you get through Haddington and are left with just a hellish alpine grade uphill to the mountaintop on the B6369 Gifford road. 

It was 1hr50 to get there but I was confident the wind would assist me on the return. Better to get the worse direction out the way while still fresh and full of anticipation. While the return journey (1hr41m) was nearly ten minutes faster, it was more like a cross wind not a tail wind and I felt slightly shortchanged, perhaps the leitmotif of the day.

nicely planted out new oaks
if a bit close together

I had set off in overcast weather but the promised sunshine seemed to be materialising nicely, the skies clearing as I cycled. When I arrived I jumped off the bike and before getting into character, had a quick skip around the woodpile. I saw a large golden insect take off and fly away. I texted Mary to report jubilantly the sun and dragonflies were out.

Kiss of death. The clouds swept over the sun and by the time I'd changed into protective overtrousers and got the camera out there was a light drizzle falling and despite wading through the thigh deep bracken, torturous jaggy shrubs and tick-infested bad-lands there was less than no sign of dragonflies. 

I mean that. Sometimes you arrive at a venue and have an instinct for the likely appearance or non-appearance of a wish-list candidate. The logpile venue suddenly felt absent of joy. Maybe it was the fall in atmospheric pressure I was responding to, maybe the blood-sugar crash of 20miles into a headwind. But I felt the sword of doom hanging overhead and that it might be hours or days before the sun would emerge again. What to do? No coffee shops nearby other than Gifford a few miles in the wrong direction although this didn't actually occur to my foggy brain. What should I do? What I wanted to do was lie down and rest. There were no suitable beds handy so I pushed my bike under a large sheltering tree. Underneath its umbrella boughs there was bare ground rather than tick infested grass so I lay down. 

At first I had trouble straightening out the residual curve in my back from 2hrs on the bike and it felt like my head had to go far too far back to lie without a pillow. I thought I might get back up and find a pillow in my bike pannier bags but the required effort to get over the few yards to where my bike stood grazing seemed too overwhelming. Eventually the back of my head met the woodland carpet and it wasn't the worst bed I'd ever lain in. 

the view

The view up through the branches of the headboard tree was quite lovely. I was still wearing my camera in the harness on my chest, oddly, (must remember not to snooze and turn over) so took a picture although it was far too zoom and not wide enough to accurately represent my lovely bedroom headroom. The tree caught most of the falling moisture but a little snuck through the pine filter to gently wash my soul. I experimented with closing my eyes and quickly heard all the birdsongs of the wood. They had gone quiet as the rain fell but now I could hear them again and I peaked out to see if the skies were blue again. They were not. I pulled the curtains shut and could hear a nearby bee buzzing, the whee whee whee of wood-pigeon wings and a chaffinch recited the updated weather forecast. I wondered what I was thinking getting into bed wearing my camera. Next time at this hotel remember to take a room at the back away from the road traffic and the once-every-ten-mintues car going past.

Some time later I saw a distant patch of blue out the corner of my window and hoped it would grow large. I threw back the covers and once standing, brushed the pine needles off. I couldn't remember if I was in a bad mood or not. I looked about for dragonflies. Nothing. Rather than cycle home I thought I'd at least visit the pond half a mile away where the immatures who appear first at the woodpile, eventually congregate to mate and egg lay. Would there be any there? Not unless the weather improves dramatically.

When I arrived at the pond it was khaki coloured pea-and-ham soup with zero visibility. There were no dragnflies and even fewer damselflies. Where was everyone? Waste of flippin time.

Sometimes a pond can look deserted until you do a perimeter circuit and then you realise lots of insects were sat motionless on the gorse and tall grasses at the edge. Within a few yards I stirred up a glossy winged female BBC. She had chosen today to emerge. The glossy wings were evidence of her climbing out an exuvia within the last hour or two. And although she could fly she sat while I took a million photos from all angles and then afterwards she sat on my warm hand, a thing you can only get away within the first moments of adult life before their software is uploaded including the coding for avoid human contact at all cost!

mobile phone pic - oh look, a rare moment of sunshine!

the only other odonata of the day
a singular large red damselfly that looked a bit crooked 
or partially emerged and hadn't quite straightened out its wings

tadpoles in pea-and-ham soup

duck egg pondside
given there were several, a predator is likely

meanwhile the weather deteriorated
and it became clear it was time to head home

The worst thing about this rather offputting day was that it tarnished the joy of these spectacular dragonflies. I haven't had the heart to rush back on a better weather day. I know how grim the cycle is if there is a bit of wind and recently there has been quite a bit of wind. Maybe I can take a shot at going by bus, or put my bike on the train to Longniddry or Drem and cycle from there. I should do something soon as we are getting into the time of year when there are lots of new butterflies (and banded demoiselles)(and humming-bird hawk-moths) to go hunt. Colstoun is no longer a special place in my list of special places, and it is probably the fault of a bad forecast from the BBC. (I have deliberately left room for a BBC 2 blog. We'll see if it happens or not.)

murky weather, murky pond
time to cycle home

mobile phone video 

20 miles in either direction